Harry Potter and the Poncy Possum of Doom
by TotalJinx
Summary: Eh? Read it or I shall send my poncy possum after you.
1. Ah, Hogwarts

Disclaimer: I am still not J.K. Rowling, who owns everything related to Harry Potter. Neither am I Joss Whedon, or Fox, who together own the various things related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I would also like to credit that possum I saw on the road a while back, in case it decides to get a lawyer and claim that I am trying to take its species away from it. I would also like to thank all the letters of the alphabet, for giving me a media with which to write my various mutterings of insanity.

Harry Potter and the Poncy Possum of Doom:

It was a typical day at Hogwarts. Birds were singing, students were making professors want to hang themselves, and someone had transfigured the Old Testament and some random girl with flawless hair and color-changing eyes was being stoned for her alleged sins. So far, the day was just super.

"So," Harry said casually as he strolled down the plush lawn with Susan Bones, who has far too awesome of a name to get so little recognition except to occasionally acknowledge that the Hufflepuff house exists, " would you like to become my blood-slave? Cho Chang is a totally annoying bitch who doesn't deserve my greatness any longer. You, because you are a Hufflepuff, are naturally my last resort, but very reliable."

Susan raised one of her neatly trimmed eyebrows in reply before her face changed to a smile. No one ever asked her for much of anything, because she usually did not exist, but the kind author has decided to take pity upon her and give her a much more interesting life. "I would like nothing better, you sexy hunk of bespectacled scar-faced Gryffindor," she replied sweetly, as the Sorting Hat dictated that she should. Hufflepuffs are so reliable and loyal, that she had a flat rate of two sickles an hour to one and all who require her blood-slave services.

As a deranged teenager, Harry had only one choice as to what to do in this situation: storm away as angstily as possible. "You just don't understand!" he roared, slightly mammothy brows knitting together to give the full effect of a dark, brooding male. Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer suddenly appeared, leaning casually against a stone wall and wearing a surprisingly chic leather jacket, doing a much better dark, brooding male impression.

Hermione skipped by humming something resembling "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts," with Ron trailing, unnoticed, behind.

"I know you do, love..." he said dreamily, "I mean---DEATH TO CROOKSHANKS, DAMNIT!"

"However do you manage being so brooding?" asked the younger of the two, and Angel handed him his business card, which was black, and thoroughly depressing. Harry opened his mouth, but something suddenly shut him up.

Just then , swooping like an overgrown, yet surprisingly oily bat, Snape comes by and berates Potter for pretending to be a vampire. Potter immediately claims this is to help find his identity as he is an angsting hormone driven teenage male. Snape of course thinks this is complete bull and drains Potter completely just to rid the world of an angst sponge. 


	2. Electrical Tape on Sunday Morning

Chapter Two: Electrical Tape on Sunday Morning

But, naturally, being the infamous "Boy Who Lived," he could not stay undead for very long. The British crypt scene started to bore him after about two seconds, because no one would pay ay attention to his superior angstiness. All of the other little angsty boys had been slaughtered, as well, and the residents of the underworld were well over their quota.

So, after having his pasty ass royally kicked out of the Vampiric elite, he was brought back to life by some random Voodoo shaman and sent back to Hogwarts to finish his studies and perturb the living like a good little boy.

Little did Harry know, that an uninvited guest wearing a distasteful floral button-down shirt had followed him all the way to the Underworld and back. He stealthily followed him, constantly snapping pictures from the tiny hidden camera, micro-chipped into his head by some dude with a laser. DUN DUN DUN...a runaway poncy possum. 


	3. Damn

Chapter three- Damnit:

All of his classmates glared at him and let out a giant, mutual "awww, shit," as he strode confidently back into his Transfiguration class. "Does anyone need saving?" he had asked calmly, a wide grin on his face as he scanned his disgruntled classmates, thinking they might be confronted by a Komodo Dragon or something in the near future. He saw his name on the wall, which honored him. "Aw, shux, a memorial to my greatness!"

There was an banner ornately carved into the back wall that had been tenderly signed by all of his peers.

"Thank God He Died, Now We Don't Have To Hire A Hit man," the banner read, and there were many stick-figure drawings on the various ways that would have been more painful for him to die, but they settled for the vigorous blood-draining, because it was at no extra cost to them.

Neville had started growing a small herb garden in the place where Harry's seat had once been. Neville proceeded to gnaw on McGonagall's middle-aged ankles until she let him use the space to set up a small herbology shrine. It was also a spot where he liked to sit and find his center, in the midst of his small, herb-ish sanctuary in the middle of a class that he really sucked at.

Plants thrive on egotistical vibes, and they were refusing to go away. Harry's were very strong. He was very upset that his creation had been ruined. With Harry gone, everything was good. There was no more hunger, child abuse, or plastic Pizza Bell toys. The cosmic balance was restored. But, no- he had to come back and screw it all up for the billionth time.

Discretely, a certain flower-shirted friend was flashing away in the back of the classroom, shooting some very becoming shots of the back of Harry's Canada-sized head. 


	4. It didn't work

A multitude of uber-annoying sunlight flitted gently in through the window of Harry's dormitory. The thick, black brocade drapes that a certain boy who happened to live had added in order to better suit his faux-depressive state had been pushed open, letting the eager sunshine fill the dormitory, by the sole twinkley-eyed occupant of the room. It was about three 'o clock in the afternoon, when useful, much more awesome people were doing constructive things.

"Harry...Harry," a blurred figure called with a soothing, cool hand on his unsightly forehead. His Headmaster slowly came into focus. There had been a rough party the previous night and he had downed the equivalent of about half of his body mass in tequila.

"CHRIST!" cried the Halfblood Prince of Angst, crying out in pain.

"What is it, Harry, your scar again?" asked Albus Dumbledore, clear concern for the boy showing in his elderly voice. His earlier episode has caused quite a scare, but he was a wise and worldly man, and decided to burst into tears.

"No...eyes...twinkling...so bright...inducing...blindness," Harry managed to stammer. It was as if a thousand very shiny knives were stabbing continuously into his eye sockets. Dumbledore's bright blue eyes were going about their customary twinkling, as per usual. His Headmaster's crystalline tears only refracted the light even more, causing his charge to go into cardiac arrest.

After having had lemon drops shoved down his throat, Harry had resumed normal breathing patterns. "So," he asked, propping his chin on his fist, "why the hell are you sitting at my bedside?" He asked cheerily, his clear admiration for the man making him feel all warm and tingly inside. Or, maybe he was falling deeply in love with him. Who was a hormonally confused boy to say? After all, he did have that bizarre beard fetish...

"Well, before I break the news, I'd like to tell you that your poetry is excellent," said Dumbledore, still thumbing through a dark, factory-distressed leather-bound volume that had stickers from Hot Topic and caution tape pasted all over it. "Here, I'll read you my favorite!" He cleared his throat and began to read. "'Darkness is the Void.  
Filling,  
My rotted corpse Of a tattered soul With a bunch of vampiric moles

Darkness,  
Enveloping me in The blankety blanket of night Dark, like my soul.

Darkness,  
Darkness darkness Darkety dark Dark dark Death.'"

Harry beamed and offered to get him a signed copy, but Mr. Shiny Eyes politely refused, saying that he didn't get books signed after Labor Day because of hammerhead sharks and their Mafia.

"So, my dear boy, that last stanza really touched me. It reminded me of my childhood friend, Mopsy. Mopsy was a mop. A very good mop..." Tears formed in the crevices surrounding his crinkled eyes once more and Harry yelped out in pain, writhing around in his sheets from the sheer agony of it; or maybe he just wanted to turn Dumbledore on. In any case, Dumbledore continued speaking.

"Anyway, it turns out that you are possessed by The Dark One and---"

"How can I be possessed by myself?"

"The one with no pupils, slaughtered your parents and countless Circus folk."

"Oh, that one."

"Yeah, so, it turns out you're a danger to the entire castle and the world. If you would kindly kill yourself, if would make my whole life a whole lot easier. A noose and a chair have been provided, so whenever you're ready, just go for it. Care for a lemon drop?"

"I'm on the South Beach Diet, but thank you."

"Anytime."

And, with that, Albus left the dormitory and proceeded to his office to do important things, like brood over his past.

Later that evening, the Gryffindor Prefect ran into his office with an apparent scowl on his face. "Headmaster?"

"Yes?"

"It didn't work."

"Damn," the Headmaster said with a sigh, "he must be on mental steroids, or something." 


	5. That time of year again

It was suddenly Christmastime at Hogwarts. Ah, how swiftly time flies, does it not? A thin blanket of snow was gently falling over the grounds. Old Jack Frost was mischieviously frosting windowpanes and causing young, unexpecting limbs to wither and fall off due to extreme frostbite. Some of the less loved, or more independent (whatever light you wish to shed on it) students were staying at school for what promised to be a warm and nurturing holiday season. Harry, as his family hated him (and with good reason), was among these students, lowering their spirits, as per usual. As he passed his magically inclined peers in the holly-bedecked halls, they would give him menacing glares and whisper furiously amongst themselves, but Harry always took this as a compliment.

"That's it, dear, stay on the positive side of things," a matronly woman eating a large helping of Christmas pudding called encouragingly as he passed, not realizing that she would have to spend the entire afternoon listening to him babble on about how hard it was to be alive and how everyone really loved him, didn't they? Did she want an autograph? Was she quite sure that she didn't want to have a little paper lightning bolt signed?

Abraham Goldstein, a member of a very prominent Pureblood Jewish family, was, suprisingly, staying at Hogwarts as well. His family loved him very much, but he had gone on a hunger strike until he was allowed to stay. He insisted upon lobbying in front of dear J.K Rowling's office for her failure to add Mennorahs to the original books, finding it very offensive. She was conveniently in a state of perpetual "power-lunching," and never quite could make it to his appointments.

Our possum-y friend was enjoying the holiday season, too. Perhaps he was enjoying it a tad too much to be quite wholesome. He was in a festive mood, having decorated his forehead-implanted camera with a decorative sprig of mint. While in a moment of extreme holiday cheer, he had installed cameras cleverly disguised as distasteful baubles to the side of each and every bunch of hanging mistletoe that just so happened to be in Harry's path.

Aren't the holidays just so great at bringing folks together? 


End file.
